Imaginary Dollhouse
by lye tea
Summary: Compulsive from Impulsive: they are still worlds apart. /xxxHolic Crossover/ /Kyouya x Haruhi/


A/N: Crossover with xxxHolic. It's not necessary to read xxxHolic to understand the story. I just thought Yuuko tied the themes up pretty nicely.

* * *

**Imaginary Dollhouse**

Everything has a price. She's running a shop here, after all. And no matter what they think, she's still got to keep her best interests first and foremost.

**maybe we're all a bit crazy**

Kyouya wakes up promptly at seven. And is out in the car, shifting through papers and stocks, and going lifetimes fast, at eight. There is no delay; there _can't_ be a delay. And Kyouya is seen waving back.

Haruhi sighs, and Haruhi resigns.

This was how it is: No need to complicate things and over-calculate what is there—evident, _flagrant_. Like a pair of mice caught two-in-one, scorched up in a fire.

"Puns."

"Did you say something, Haru-chan?" Hunni asks. Hunni always has to know, always, _always_ has to discern—

The slightest variances and aberrations, and thinks oh-so he is too, too smart.

"Nothing," Haruhi replies, "Just something I thought of a second ago. Anyway, I better be going. And you too, for that matter."

Matter of fact. Bluntly put, she has no time for flippant games. Not here, in this gaudy-old house. Where she could asphyxiate (hang up the noose) anytime.

_Now_.

**hit-and-run: don't you dare pay**

Yuuko looks out her window, like she does every morning and noon and night. But she spies something worthwhile this time around, and slowly, she smiles. And suddenly, there's a crash, and there's a thundering cry (and a couple of yells, voluble epithets).

"Send him in," she announces. Imperial and imperious, she's still grasping for that pipe.

And through the door, Yuuko sees him (transparent and upfront, and not through some vague, opaque mirror—crystallized). In the flesh, Kyouya enters.

He is startled and notices her amusement. Her. That strange woman tossing her head back and laughing. And he is scared ('cause she's some creature, a recondite, writhing demon). And he is gasping for answers he doesn't have.

"Don't be frightened. Come here," she calls out.

And her voice is soothing and jarring and full of brittle needles and venom-honey.

So he finds himself walking, and thinking _this can't be right_. But she's got him, on his tipsy-toes and an inch's stretch away.

"I…I am Yuuko," she says and continues sucking on her pipe, "And you…are Ohtori Kyouya. Right? Of course I am. I have never been wrong about these things."

About what things?

"Yes. No. I mean, who are you?"

Yuuko turns around, her long hair pools around like a black, iron-shield curtain. "I _told_ you. I am Yuuko. That's all you need to know. The question is: are you satisfied?"

"No."

"With what? Life?"

"You."

She laughs, again. "You are an amusing human. I'll have to give you that. But what about your wife?"

She is reaching, twirling her fingers up his chest (and down his shirt) and till her fingertips meet his flesh, Yuuko lingers. Hazardous, a nuclear waste, she has it coming—and sees all that is going to happen. Even the damn apocalypse.

"I came in looking for a phone. My cell mysteriously broke down, just like my car. Outside _your_ shop. My personal life has nothing to do with this."

"Oh? Well, isn't that interesting? Isn't that _enchanting_. But I'm afraid I can't let this go. You need my phone, which I'd be happy to comply" (and she's digging her nails into his flesh, and he is wincing but she doesn't care) "But I need some recompense too."

Kyouya sighs, exasperated, exhausted—and regretting ever meeting her. "How much do I owe you?" And there's a flourish, and there's the check, magically produced.

Yuuko shakes her head, ugly frowns cutting deep in her pretty face. "Oh no, no, no. I don't want money. What would I do with money? What I am thinking of is much more entertaining."

Yuuko turns, Yuuko leans and the slit is rising higher uppity up, up, up her leg.

"Sit down. This is going to take a while."

Because she's holding two glasses of wine. And there's this ambivalent grin turning up her lips. And those lips are colored crimson, and there's no stopping. Not now.

**at half in the afternoon, all you want is a good bottle of ethanol**

—Ethanol, Ether-All—

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized

From the Love Song of JAP (or TSE).

There's a band of dust flinging itself over the heavens, the firmament, the higher-most, upper-most part of hell. Because heaven and hell have no disparity, just the altitude in the atmosphere. Clarity: liquid flames that burn all night.

Haruhi walks with speed and a certain daze, that could be misread as grace. And there's no traces left to this particular enigma. She's used up all her notes and guesses. She is all in a trance (like Yuuko in her narcosis, just a second ago).

And then she sees that house. And out comes Kyouya, almost happy—accidental. And he is shaking hands with a lady, a really, horribly, atrociously gentle and mental lady.

The woman extends her spine and kisses Kyouya on the cheek, and he is blushing, confused at this. Gesture.

Haruhi cocks her head, re-thinking what she has witnessed. And she can't find the twinge of jealousy (that _you're supposed to feel_).

So, Haruhi waits till Kyouya is well out of sight, leaving in that dented long-long car. Winding down the streets, looking so fit and snug in the middle. And there's that house again, so eccentric and wrong.

Antithetical.

To everything Haruhi could think of.

"What are you doing? Come inside. You came of your accord, and now, you're shy. Why?"

The voice laughs, from inside.

Haruhi enters, wondering exactly, precisely _why_?

"Why…why was my husband just here?"

"I am Of Many Names, but you can call me Yuuko. And you are Haruhi. Right? Yes."

"Is this some kind of joke?"

"Nope, no joke. I am Yuuko, for _real_. And I grant wishes, for a price. What wish do you want me to grant?"

"No wish. I am simply a browser."

Yuuko turns, and she is no longer joking (or part-pretend-jocundly saying). Her face storms over, and there is a devilish, malignant cloud spreading. Cancerous, engulfing, Yuuko is no longer joking.

"It is fated. So make a wish. Goddamnit, you're so stupid."

"I…"

"_Choose_."

"Fine. My wish. This is ridiculous. My wish—"

And there is thunder, and there is lightening, and rain starts to drift down outside. But here, in Yuuko's world, everything is tranquil and frozen. Here, Haruhi concentrates hard as Yuuko brings out her mirror.

Soon, Haruhi is singing in shock (she who has never sang). _Ching-a-ling-ling-a_. Que sera sera.

**déjà vu ****is kind of like voodoo (because you can't breathe and you **_**know**_** none of it could be real)**

"You fell asleep," Yuuko proclaims for her ghosts and dead-things to hear, nonchalant. Because this sort of thing was a mundane phenomenon, and she has got it down to a pat.

Haruhi opens her eyes and sees the last shreds of that day's light filtering through the paper screens. She massages her legs, swollen and red, and Yuuko is massaging her too. And kissing her and whispering: Now you know.

"Know what?"

But Yuuko doesn't respond, just continues pressing her sharp dagger-fingers into Haruhi's spine. And out, out Yuuko pushes her through the door.

"I don't want you coming back again. 'Cause who knows what the cost will be next time? Doubled, tripled, whatever. You'll never be able to come up with the amount."

Stunned and aching, Haruhi leaves. But as she's a-sliding into her car and a-nursing her splitting head-hurts (and heart-hurts), she notices the gash on her expensive skirt.

Irreparable and irrevocable.

"So that's your price."

**a day is spent in nonsense with drabbled clothes**

Yuuko slips out of her "morning-wear" and casts on her "evening-wear". Her hands are shaking but that's just because there's no sake left. And her stomach is rumbling, which was an entirely new experience.

But Yuuko is still beautiful, and so, everything is fine.

**in the back of the witch's gingerbread house, there's a storage made of icing and frosting and all things sanguine**

When all the customers have finally left, and her assistants are putting down the signs, and the lamps and shutters have been sealed shut, the storage room comes alive.

It breathes in guttural rasps and flashes brilliant eyes all around, signaling to each other that it was safe.

And there are swords and knives, staffs and wands, and there are the dolls—in the left corner amongst the useless paraphernalia. Very, nearly toward the strike of midnight, they will commence conversations forgotten years ago. But only during the night, because when morning arrives, they'll be turned to dust.

Dust is to dust, as this world is to its own.

**limber is better**

That day, when Kyouya returns home and so does Haruhi, they are both content. For the first time in an unnatural state.

Adaptability.

She decided: That's what she will employ (and so will he, only secretly). And they can smile at each other now without so much care. And they're not quite as guarded anymore. And there's no hesitancy in their motions.

Re-assured, re-affirmed, Haruhi & Kyouya are almost human again.

"That is exactly what Yuuko said."

"Who is Yuuko?" Kyouya asks.

"No one really."

**some time jolts overlooked **

It is autumn now, three months afterwards.

And on these days, when the sun is clear and there's a dangerous wind in the air, Kyouya and his wife go on walks. Hand-in-hand, together.

And today, they're passing by a familiar street, where they met someone they couldn't quite remember or forget.

"Look," Haruhi points to an empty lot.

"What?"

"Isn't that funny."

"Yes, it is," Kyouya agrees and draws her closer.

Because there's nothing there, evaporated (all gone!). But Yuuko is giggling along with them, somewhere.


End file.
